


The Knife's Edge

by semaphoredrivethru



Series: Dirty Rotten Scoundrels [4]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: AU, Comment Fic, M/M, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-05
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semaphoredrivethru/pseuds/semaphoredrivethru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James has been riding the knife's edge of his relationship with his employer for too long. He tells himself it's for the best that they do nothing about it, least of all talk about it, but Michael hasn't got the memo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Knife's Edge

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this](http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lskpm9rc341qkm5g8.jpg) and [this.](http://www.tumblr.com/photo/1280/11049522748/3/tumblr_lskq46M1Yz1qb3lvj) _Especially_ the second one, because that shirt is un-freaking-believable.

James watched.

Mr. Fassbender worked the room smoothly, shaking hands and taking names. If there'd been a baby about, James wouldn't have been surprised is his employer had given the tot a big old smooch for the bloody cameras that seemed to follow his every move these days. It came part and parcel, naturally, with Mr. Fassbender's plan, because what man of his intelligence and influence would be satisfied with remaining as Home Secretary for long?

Certainly not Michael Fassbender, backroom businessman and born politician.

Hands clasped behind his back and standing at parade rest, James picked at his cuticles absently, calculating how long it must have taken Mr. Fassbender to put together this plan, to organize the manpower and get just the right friends in power that he had scarcely needed a fraction of the information they'd pulled from the flashdrive retrieved at the charity benefit four months earlier. Not that James would ask, although he reckoned he could if he really wanted to; they'd kept their conversations to a minimum since that night, when James had pushed things a little too far, had let his little brain drive a bit more than was safe during an op. He knew Mr. Fassbender had wanted to talk about it, possibly to resolve the bloody distracting sexual tension that had been simmering between them since day one, but James had, quite cowardly, avoided the man until enough time had passed.

Enough time that they had a chance to cool, enough time that whatever tenuous connection they might have been forming in their half-conversations seemed scattered at last. James told himself that it was for the best, that he'd never be able to to do his job properly if he was shagging the man he was supposed to be protecting. Each night, as James did his rounds about the house, checking points of entry, he reminded himself that it was for the best that Mr. Fassbender was no longer inviting him to drinks and chess, no longer giving him those long looks that encouraged James to wear marginally impractical clothing and to flirt far more than was seemly with anyone he wasn't (technically) planning to sleep with.

James told himself these things, even as Mr. Fassbender shrugged out of his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his sapphire blue shirt, still laughing and working the room, earning votes that they both knew he didn't really need to get his goal. He repeated them like a mantra, knowing it was a lost cause; all James wanted was to grab him by the tie and haul him somewhere quiet and snog his brains out, if only to keep the bloody man compliant long enough to get somewhere more private so they could get naked and fuck.

Instead, James just watched.

Mr. Fassbender was finishing up with the last of the guests, waving them out of the hall with a smile that James knew was fake, but no one else seemed to register. He collapsed into a chair, tie gone, top few buttons undone in a blood-boiling tease, and turned to fix James with a stare that was almost as vibrantly blue as his damn shirt.

"Are you going to stand over there," Mr. Fassbender said, looking equal parts tired, amused, and perhaps even a little bit arouse, "biting your lip all night, or are you going to come over here and talk to me?"

James hesitated. "Sir, I--"

"Michael." There was no request in his voice; James knew an order when he heard one.

" _Michael,_ I'm not sure this is the best time to..."

"I've been waiting for you to find a better one, James, and you've only proven yourself spectacularly good at avoiding the issue, which isn't going to help either of us in the slightest."

For the first time, James realized that even without the extra work they'd all done, the sort of work that would have the Beeb in uproar and half a dozen "friendly" countries threatening war, Mr. Fassbender -- Michael -- might have had a real shot at this on his own. There was something quite refreshing about a politician that actually played to things directly.

James took a deep breath and dropped his stance, approaching Michael. He could do this, they could clear the air and just get back to being employer and employee like they ought to be. All he had to do was--

The radio in James's ear crackled with static. Something about a problem out front between a couple of the guests and a few of the half-arsed protestors they'd managed to pick up along the way. James cursed.

"I have to--" He gestured lamely to his earpiece.

Michael frowned, but nodded. "Fine. Go on, then."

James hurried out of the hall, acutely aware of the eyes on his back the whole way. Aware of how Michael watched him.

Something, James decided, was going to have to give.


End file.
